By ,
The Washington Post
See pictures here.
It wasn’t the greatest first
impression I’d ever made. Arriving at the small, dusty Cambodian village
of O’Key, where dogs scampered around the handful of bamboo houses, I
smiled and waved at the mother and daughter sitting in the shade of a
banana tree. The young girl stared at me. Then, lip trembling, she burst
into tears.
“Don’t take it personally,” my guide, Lok, reassured me. “She hasn’t seen very many Westerners.”
(The Washington Post)
Although the mighty jungle-clad temples of Angkor have put Cambodia
firmly on the tourist map, very few visitors venture to the country’s
remote and mysterious southwest region. Until recently, the Cardamom
Mountains were simply off-limits. War raged in these quiet emerald
peaks, named for the heady spice that grows here, until the mid-1990s.
The area was the last stronghold of Khmer Rouge rebels who retreated
here after the 1979 collapse of Pol Pot’s brutal regime. For more than a
decade, bloody battles continued to break out between the guerrillas
and local villagers.
When the guns finally fell silent, the
locals had lost everything. Forced to exploit their natural resources to
survive, they hunted wildlife and destroyed the forests. But despite
their dark past and a back story worthy of the Hollywood treatment, the
Cardamoms remain a place of astounding beauty. And with peace has come
tourism.
Only 1,000 or so travelers a year make the journey to
this region, which is a three-hour drive and a two-hour scenic boat ride
from the capital, Phnom Penh. Their efforts are rewarded with
world-class hiking and local interaction that’s a far cry from the
commercialized “cultural” treks found elsewhere in Asia.
With
the help of the Wildlife Alliance — an American nonprofit organization
that works alongside national governments to promote conservation and
alleviate poverty in Southeast Asia — the communities here have
reclaimed their destiny. Landmines have been cleared, former
battlefields have become prime trekking territory, and the men who once
fought the rebels now lead guided walks along deserted trails. The
women, meanwhile, have opened their homes as guesthouses, with all in
the community benefiting from the profits.
Elephant tracks
One housewife-turned-hotelier is Ming Tha, who proudly showed me
into the second bedroom of her humble home, built on wooden stilts, in
Chi Phat, the main village in the mountains, where my trekking adventure
began.
Settling in, I could see Ming below me through the gaps
in the floorboards. There she sat, busily picking coriander leaves as
dogs and ducks, chickens and children ran around the courtyard. The
cicadas sang sweetly as the rain clouds moved in, the heavy droplets
falling like bullets on the iron roof. Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat.
The
next morning, I strolled along Chi Phat’s main road, a ruler-straight
avenue where petrol and potent rice wine are sold in identical plastic
bottles. My guide from Phnom Penh, Lok, introduced me to Kan at the
community center that doubles as the town’s only restaurant. Kan, born
and raised in Chi Phat, was to lead our trek. We planned to walk about
22 miles over the next two days, although, with so many trails of
varying lengths and difficulty, choosing our route proved to be a
challenge. More than 87 miles of trails have been carefully carved
through the mountains, with a number of thatched structures erected in
clearings for camping in comfort. Well, relative comfort.
The prospect of trekking here was an exciting one. “It’s world
class,” said Lok, glancing toward the forested peaks that rise to
heights of nearly 3,000 feet. Home to more than 70 species of mammals,
including Malayan sun bears, clouded leopards and the critically
endangered Irrawaddy dolphins, the Cardamoms bring together 16 different
ecosystems.
They also form part of the last elephant corridor in the world —
a route that herds of the long-trunked creatures travel over several
months toward the coastal resort of Sihanoukville. Sadly, the elephants’
numbers have plummeted in recent decades because of rampant poaching,
and it’s thought that fewer than 100 remain in the area.
Joined by our cook, a man of few words nicknamed Mr. Crab — he
never revealed his real name — we set off, making an exciting discovery
within minutes. Scattered across the narrow trail, carving deep holes on
the moist forest floor, were elephant tracks the size of dinner plates.
Kan,
however, seemed more interested in a nearby tree. Hacking at the blood
red bark, the thud of his machete echoing through the silent forest, he
stripped away a clump and promptly rubbed it over his exposed legs and
ankles. “For protection against leeches,” he said, over the loud call of
a gibbon. Grabbing a handful myself, I followed suit as the
bloodsuckers appeared seemingly from nowhere on the moist ground.
For
hours we walked through untamed nature of inexpressible beauty: giant
ferns growing beside delicate and exotic plants, small gecko snakes
vanishing beneath fallen tree trunks. Best of all, though, there wasn’t
another soul to be seen.
That evening we set up camp in the heart
of the forest. There was little for us to do except tie our hammocks to
the bamboo pillars of a special open-sided structure erected in a small
clearing. Mr. Crab immediately set about rustling up a feast. Hunched
over a sizzling wok on an open fire, he fried slivers of spicy beef as
night began to fall. Suddenly, every animal call, every rustling of the
trees, grew more mysterious and sinister.
There was little time to
dwell on this, however. I was keen to learn more of the local history
from those who had lived through it. Like many, Kan and Lok both bear
the scars of recent history. Kan, born in Chi Phat and now in his 40s,
started fighting the Khmer Rouge when he was just 15, while Lok, in his
mid-30s, lost loved ones to the regime, as did countless other
Cambodians. “I don’t seek revenge on those who killed the people in my
village when I was a child,” he said. “My father was among the dead and
my mother feared that we would all be separated, so we fled. I lost my
father and my home.”
Secret rites
The next morning, I awoke to the sound of crackling firewood. Mr.
Crab was serving breakfast, coffee bubbling away in his well-used tin
kettle.
Day two of our trek had more wow factor: epic scenery and
ramshackle villages hiding ancient secrets. We crossed vast plains
carpeted with pale grass that crunched underfoot. Rising gently and
majestically all around us were the Cardamoms. Out there somewhere was
Cambodia’s highest peak — Phnom Aural, which stands at 5,948 feet.
Following the snaking route of a gushing stream, I peered into the
murky water, looking for the rare Siamese crocodile, once found in
abundance here but rarely seen today.
It’s hard to underestimate the cultural and natural
significance of the Cardamoms to the Cambodians. The region has been
home to pockets of people for centuries, and some of their customs have
long been lost. Lost but not forgotten. While they no longer practice
them, locals continue to respect the ancient rituals of their
forefathers.
In the 13th century, during the height of the Khmer Empire, the
deceased were not interred in the ground. A different final resting
place awaited them. Bones and other remains were placed in ceramic jars
and left in secret spiritual locations, some of which have recently been
discovered.
Kan and Lok wanted me to see one for myself, so
after meeting the locals at the village of O’Key — and reducing one to
tears — we ventured deep into the forest, to a cavernous hole at the
bottom of a cliff. Sitting in mounds of sand and dust was a collection
of ancient and weathered pots and jars. As we gazed at them, our mood
turned somber, yet at the same time, I felt a strange sense of
excitement. There was no denying how fortunate I was to be in such a
sacred and secret place.
Until recently, talk in villages such as
O’Key had been of nothing but the Cambodian government’s controversial
plans to mine the mountains for gold and titanium. Had the proposal gone
ahead, it would have spelled catastrophe, destroying the elephant
corridor and centuries of heritage. Opposition campaigners, led by the
Wildlife Alliance and local environmentalists, put up a strong fight,
and the plans, thankfully, were shelved last year.
We returned to
Chi Phat both exhausted and exhilarated, but Lok had one last place to
show off. I hopped onto the back of a motorbike, and we drove down a
long bumpy track out of the village. We crossed a river, walking
gingerly over slippery rocks near fizzing rapids, and came to a stop
before a patch of woodland. “This is our tree nursery,” Lok said
proudly. And he was right to be proud. Reversing the widespread
deforestation of days gone by, the Wildlife Alliance has replanted about
2 million trees here — ebony, mahogany and sandalwood.
Mist
lingered over the treetops; the faint chimes of cowbells rang from the
distant flatlands. The past may have been dark, but the future’s bright.
Boulos is a London-based travel writer.
1 comment:
Great post! Read more about Cardamom. This post is linked there.
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